the language of the heart

She is English spoken this girl. When she needs to express herself she does it in English. She speaks Malay of course but does not have anywhere near the eloquence as she does in English.

But when she loves, the word closest to her heart is Sayang. Because for all her English speaking, she grew up with love in her household, and the language of that love was Malay.

There’s a certain sense of poetry, of sincerity in this language that she loves. Perhaps because it’s not language she uses to communicate her daily needs, Malay holds a certain romanticism for her.

Why is it that “tercari cari bayanganmu” means so much more than “looking for your shadow” which is what it translates to? The Malay conveys a certain hopelessness and despair which the English doesn’t.

Her head may speak in English, but her soul whispers in Malay.

And she would be lost if she never heard tender Malay words in her household.

Photo courtesy of Adibi on Flickr.

the vulture speaks

Seriously?!

You are a complete and utter moron. Shame on you for doing what you did, but then shame of me for being such a shocking judge of your character.

If I am honest I am appalled at some of your behaviour whilst we were on the programme. The most shocking parts of your behaviour I kept pretty much to myself. I did this because you were a friend and because I did not want your reputation to be tainted. I could have but I didn’t.

Since then you behaved like a child with the situation we found ourselves in. A situation I have to add became what it was because of your immaturity. Again I turned a blind eye, because I figured you should be allowed to deal with it in your own way.

You then chose to hurt someone who means a lot to me. You took her for granted and treated her with little respect. You made her feel worth very little. Then when you decided things were ok for you, you expected her to take you back into her life with no repercussions.

She is a better woman than I for she did.

Try though I might, to remember that this was not a slight to me, I did find it trying to pretend the way you did that nothing was wrong. This was the turning point. Despite what we had, I saw facets in your personality that did not sit well with someone I wanted to remain close to. I thought we could just then be acquaintances. I even extended you my hospitality, perhaps somehow hoping to rebuild those bridges.

Your behaviour when we met again was initially despicable. But yet I forgave you and chose to say nothing.

But now THIS…

You had every opportunity to clarify your “conspiracy theories” with either of us. You chose not to. You chose instead to continue with the slander. You called yourself friend. The cheek!

I do not have to explain anything to you, but know this. Your theories were ridiculously and utterly wrong. Whatever has happened between me, him and her is really none of your goddamned business.

And since you know NOTHING about what has happened what really gives you the right to judge?

When you know HALF the story should you really be making such despicable conclusions?

You are a child amongst adults. You throw tantrums when you don’t get what you want. You’re selfish, immature, cowardly, sly and just generally a nasty piece of work. More so, because you martyr yourself when you really are no martyr sir.

And when this anger subsides, I wash my hands of you.

We’re through.

Photo courtesy of James Sagi Kirshenfeld on Flickr.

Partir, c'est mourir un peu

So once again I grapple with the distance thing. It seems that my relationships tend to fall into one of two categories. The religion thing or the distance thing. It pays to have a sense of humour about these things *grin*

I never said I had sworn off long- distance relationships. I just said I wasn’t a big fan. Having done them for a while, to some degree of success, I do believe however that I am more optimistic than most about their practicality and survival rates.

I know all the depressing statistics, trust me; I researched them like my life depended on it the first time around. I still wouldn’t advise them unless you both really want it to work.

But there is something to be said about them. The first relationship that meant anything to me was long distance. I was 16; he 17 and we thought we were going to get married. We didn’t. Through him however I learnt how much I valued being able to talk to the one and how much I enjoyed having a life apart from him.

Ten years on I find myself in another such relationship and I have to admit I do see things a little differently. Though I don’t feel like I’ve changed much, my perception is definitely a little different.

The challenges are still the same. It’s still the simple things that get me. I wonder when we can do things as simple as watching telly on the same sofa or see each other for a random unplanned coffee. I still miss him the most in that instant just after we say goodbye.

I know however I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t see the possibility of a future in his eyes. I would not do this for an indefinite period of time anymore. Where once I was happy to wait on the possibility of a possibility, I now need more concrete plans. It’s a mollifying thought that ten years older, I also have more control over those plans.

I still however keep every finger crossed. And I still know that with each goodbye a little part of me dies momentarily.

Photo courtesy of Rrinie on Flickr.

on loss

grief

noun

Mental anguish or pain caused by loss or despair: heartache, heartbreak, sorrow

But yet can such a simple sentence really relay the true meaning and depth of this emotion. As I sat in the church today I couldn't help but wonder how deep the well of grief really is.

Have I grieved?

Yes, undoubtedly, but on the periphery of my consciousness I am also aware that I've merely scratched the surface of it all.

As I watched Artemis say goodbye to her father today, I couldn't help but to cry with her. How can one possibly look at another, whose heart is clearing breaking before your very eyes and not grieve? How could I possibly stare into the eyes of this woman, whose 8 year old face I remember, and not want to somehow make it all better?

And yet you know you can't, and perhaps a part of you grieves for that. For knowing that no matter how much this person matters, there really is nothing you can do.

And I wondered if it was my place to feel for her in her grief. After all I did not know the man, I simply had vague memories. Is it not a feeling so intensely private that my tears may be seem to be a mockery of the other, stronger memories of the people who clearly had the right?

Rightly or wrongly, I empathised, I held her and hoped she knew the millions of things I couldn't and didn't know how to say...